Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord(16)
“Pshaw! He’s a looby if he thinks we’re going graciously along with those plans.”
Isabella pleaded, “Stop, please. You are married now—” She placed a hand in the vicinity of her friend’s belly and felt the rounded expansion. “With a family of your own to contend with. Spinning castles for your girlhood friend—”
“Is exactly what I will do,” Anne concluded with temerity, “and they aren’t fairy castles, dearest. You haven’t seen how he looks at you. I have.”
Though she feared her sudden smile might give away her reluctant longing, Isabella refused to comment, firming her lips into a straight line the moment she noticed their upward tilt.
“You’ll simply have to trust me,” Anne added. “Newly married I may be, but there are some things a woman just knows. And I daresay, if we can keep him from haring off before Epiphany, you’ll have Frost so charmed he won’t want to leave your presence. Ever.”
That night, damn and blast, instead of another course of dancing as he’d anticipated, everyone made a great show of being judged on how well they’d gathered the items on their list. Damn and blast because he’d intended to ask Isabella to accompany him onto the floor, double damn and blast once he realized she wouldn’t be able to join him, not without keeping up appearances, thanks to his inept handling of this morning’s debacle.
After excessive jollity and wassail drinking—he’d still yet to take a sip—Harriet and her partner, the stuffy-nosed Fairfax chit, were deemed the winners and rather than outwardly deride every ridiculous reminder of the season as he’d always done in the past, and fully meant to do today, Frost found himself grinning along with the winning team as they made a great show of displaying their bounty, which ranged the gamut from a squawking Christmas goose—neck intact and covered with an elaborately tied yet trailing red ribbon—to a hand-fashioned manger scene complete with hay and a carved baby Jesus.
Frost’s mystifying contentment only increased when he observed how reverently Isabella inspected the Nativity with her still-bandaged hands, carefully brushing her fingertips over the pieces after the loudly honking goose made its displeasure at being petted quite clear.
The festive atmosphere was downright infectious, and Frost was stunned to realize he was in what could be termed nothing but high spirits, especially when he directed Ed’s attention to the little morsels the goose had deposited on the rug.
High spirits indeed, until he noticed that Isabella’s mishap was being laid firmly at his doorstep—where it rightfully belonged, but still!—judging by the hostile looks aimed his way and how she was fussed and hovered over, making it nigh impossible to reach her side, much less exchange one of the berries weighing heavily in his pocket. For her kiss.
Ah well. Ten more nights, he had, to further his cause. Exactly what that was, he’d yet to admit to himself.
Perhaps more importantly than the number of nights—especially considering he hadn’t decided how long to stay—was determining how soon an evening of dancing would once again grace the schedule and how soon Isabella’s phantom sprain might heal.
Damn and blast again! At being told to herd the damn blasting goose straight to the kitchens, the usually laughing Harriet sprite looked as though she’d come down with the mulligrubs.
“Thank you, sir, for your exceptional escort,” Isabella told Mr. Gregory when he informed her they’d reached her bedchamber door. She’d pleaded fatigue after such an eventful day though in truth she was simply desirous of some time alone. “It is most gallant of you to leave your card game for the chore.”
In actuality, he’d tripped over himself—and the squawking goose Harriet refused to relinquish to a servant—in his effort to be the one to carry Isabella to the guest wing. She felt a total fraud. But more than that, a disappointed total fraud, for Mr. Gregory was certainly not the man she’d hoped would volunteer for the task.
“Think nothing of it. I’ve had you in my arms through a good many twists and turns of Redford’s monstrous abode, the least you can do is call me Simon.” And if he knew what monstrous dowry she didn’t have, Isabella was certain he wouldn’t be so eager to pursue such familiarity.
After settling her carefully upon her feet and ensuring she could make it the rest of the way on her own—Isabella insisted she could—he lifted her hand and pressed it upon his chest.
Isabella tugged on her arm, which only caused him to hold it more firmly.
“Good night, my lovely.”
Though flattered by his focused attention, she squirmed inside at the unwanted endearment. He was a pleasant man, but she had no desire to further their acquaintance into more intimate realms.